(This piece was written a few years ago when my last child started kindergarten and I needed some place to put the feelings.)
Evan, my youngest child, started kindergarten last week. For the first time in 13 years, I have the house to myself during the day with no child to interrupt my work, cut his own or the dog’s hair “on accident,” or require peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (only grape, please) cut on the diagonal.
The first few days alone were bliss. Such quiet! Such freedom! I enjoyed being able to pick up and go anywhere on a whim without having to consider the prevailing mood of my child, the proximity of his nap time, or the whereabouts of his shoes/ blankie/ favorite toy du jour. I admired the tidiness of my house and the fact that it didn’t revert to complete and total disorder five minutes after straightening it up in the morning.
Those first childless days felt like a celebration. I’d jump out of bed in the morning, bubbling with enthusiasm, contemplating the many possible ways of spending my now-unfettered hours. I reached a mommy milestone and it felt good; I’d successfully raised all three of my children to school age. Chances are (bumpy teen years aside), things would continue to go well and I’d raise them all the way to adulthood. If motherhood were a paying job, I’d be up for a raise and a nice promotion.
So quickly my joy has evaporated. A different feeling has surfaced which, quite frankly, has devastated me.
It’s hit me that like it or not, I am alone during the day and will be for the rest of my life.
It happened while I was at the grocery store. Ever since I became a work-from-home Mom, I’ve enjoyed going to the grocery store during the day. It’s always teeming with plenty of other moms with young children. It’s like a secret club; one comprised of noisy, needy, and nap-deprived children kept loosely under control by exhausted, distracted, and overwhelmed moms. We float in and out of each other’s chaos while at the same time attempting to purchase food for our families. Whether food shopping or child rearing, each of these activities is an adventure; combining both together involves a special brand of fortitude.
In spite of the challenges, I’ve always enjoyed grocery shopping with my kids. On an especially good day, an elderly shopper or a store clerk might smile or chat with my child, commenting on his fine behavior. Interactions such as these are like gold stars on your Mommy chart, affirmations that even if it doesn’t feel like it all of the time (or even some of the time), you’re still doing something right. It’s not like I was keeping track or anything, but I always felt that I received more than the average share of gold star praise for Evan.
As I shopped alone today, I realized that the days of exchanging knowing glances of empathy with moms of tantrum-throwing children are gone. I had no child with me to hint of my vast collection of been there, done that t-shirts, earned in my own frantic moments of having a child meltdown in public.
Gone, too, are the days of curling up together for a nap after putting all of the groceries away, awash in the smell of sweet toddler as we drift off to sleep.
What hit me the hardest, though, was watching other people’s children earn the gold star comments. I wanted to scream, “Hey! I have a wonderful, adorable child, too! He’s just not here right now. He’s in kindergarten. You’d love him if you saw him.” There’s no denying that I miss him, plain and simple.
I’m painfully aware that my loneliness will only get worse, having passed this milestone with two other children. They grow from helpless babies to independent teenagers in a blink. Next year, Evan will be in first grade, and then second, and then fifth, and then graduating from high school and then going off to college.
From this moment on, when I’m out in public, I’ll no longer be seen as the mom of a charming young child. Instead, I’m just another non-descript forty-something woman. The major part of my identity has been stripped away and I don’t quite know what to do about it. Playing the mother-role to my children has defined me for so long that I’m not sure I know how to be anyone else.
I don’t know how I’m going to handle this crisis of identity. I’m sure that eventually I’ll come to appreciate the ease and savings of shopping without children. All of that silly gold star business will fade until finally disappearing like so many other memories of my kids’ early lives.
For now, the only action that feels right is to spend some time mourning the passing of my old life and waiting for my kindergartner to come home again.
Comments
Jess - I've grown quite a bit since I first wrote this piece. I was actually happy to send them back to school yesterday because my days are full now. Whenever I hear of someone else's child starting kindergarten, I still remember those lost feelings.
Squirrel - Oh, yes, my friend - there is much sweetness in store for you.
mamoore - My buddy Alice started first grade this year? No, keep her small! I'd forgotten about half-day kindergarten since our school is full-day. I feel for you. Those initial days without them are tough. XOXO
JK - Thank you so much! Now, to cheer yourself up, just go click on one of my other motherhood pieces. :)
Lainey - Although I am filling my days successfully now, it doesn't take much to wake my melancholy. What really hurts is realizing that I've forgotten so many of those sweet moments when the kids were young. How on earth do you preserve what's important in this life? Thank you for "getting it."
Lisa - Slowly, I am finding my own identity and reinventing myself although I still miss those tender, simple days when the kids were small.
mamoore - TWO loose teeth? Oh my! The Tooth Fairy is going to need to take a second job. Please tell her I said hi. :)
With homeschooling I've been able to stretch out their time with me a little longer than most.....and I've enjoyed it....except when they fight! :)
Steve - It's always a joy seeing you on one of my posts. Many thanks.
Patricia K - Yes, you do understand. Enjoy those grocery shopping days while you can.
Umbrella - What a sweet comment. You made me tear up. Thank you, my friend.
Maria - Yes, we ARE always moms; the worrying about the kids never ends. Thank you for stopping by.
You are wise to not want to hurry these feelings. One day, looking back, even your loneliest days will feel bittersweet. Best to experience them fully.
Much appreciation to you for stopping by. Hugs to your daughter.